


My Shirt

by GraveVyxen



Category: The Almighty Johnsons
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 19:10:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraveVyxen/pseuds/GraveVyxen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike dwells on his morning routine. Because that's what it's become, isn't it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Shirt

**Author's Note:**

> TITLE: My Shirt
> 
> CHARACTERS: Mike Johnson, Michele
> 
> PAIRINGS: Mike/Michele
> 
> NOTES: Just a little something for my friend, since we love these two.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Not my characters, never happened.

Mornings are really nice, before we start talking. Naked, wrapped around her soft body, covered by the comforter. Smell of sex still on the air, but that doesn't matter, not to either of us. Wake up slowly, touching, stretching. It's really cute how she tries to hide her face in the pillow when I try to kiss her cheek. I know by that little smile that she's just doing it to tease me.

She'll sit up, pull me with her. She likes to keep my arms around her waist like this. I'll nose at her hair, lick her ear, she'll swat me away. Same little dance every morning. And she told me when it started that she hates forming habits. That there would be no morning routine. But there is, and I like it like this. Guess it's another game I won.

And then she moves away, stretches, leans over, doing it all to get my attention, give me the best views, so I can file them away for later. All long legs and pale skin, cute bum. And I know she's looking over her shoulder to watch me grin, like every morning, before she grabs whatever shirt I set out to wear this morning, and slips it around her shoulders.

Today, it's red plaid, and, damn, if it doesn't look gorgeous on her. She'll only do up one or two of the buttons before heading for our little kitchen nook to start the coffee.

And me? I'll relax in bed, lay back on the pillow, far enough that I can get an eyeful watching her move around in there, filling the pot, starting my favorite drink, humming something, like she always is. And before I know it, she's got it separated into two mugs, black for me, cream and sugar for her, and she's coming back to the bed.

She'll crawl on, slowly, on her knees, never spilling a single drop of coffee on my sheets, and teasingly hold my mug out. I'm used to this game, I always let her win. She'll pull it from my grasp before I can take it. And then, snickering, hand it over. The first sip always tells me that it's perfect, like her.

There's always silence while we drink, my hand always finds her soft thigh, squeezes, rubs, pushes the hem of the shirt up a bit more. She'll smack my hand when I do that, pull it back down.

Before, finally, she leans over to kiss my chin. "Good morning." She'll murmur into my skin.

"Morning." I'll reply, steal a kiss, and rest my head on hers. I think about opening the bar, but I'm also not in the mood to leave this bed. It's always she that presses me to do my job, and I'll finally go, but only after a few more kisses and a promise of tonight before she'll hand back my shirt and find her own clothes to wear.

And so what if I wear a shirt that smells like her? It's good motivation to get through my work day.


End file.
